


Dawn-made

by NoOneFrUkingCares



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Airplanes, Flying, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Night Flight, Sunrises, and had to edit at 4 pm, i wrote this at 4 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoOneFrUkingCares/pseuds/NoOneFrUkingCares
Summary: What is death to the heavens and a new dawn?
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun & Wu Yi Fan | Kris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Challenge #1 — Beginning





	Dawn-made

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know business class seats aren't that small, but like just imagine he's really leaning over by accident.
> 
> Also shoutout to [Aurora](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFnF23TU9Og) by Yifan, I saw this Visualizer late one night like 2 days before this fest with the most crackhead caption on twit and I was honestly fully convinced that I had dreamed or hallucinated the whole thing until I searched for it after finishing this, and apparently it does actually exist so. This experience completely shaped the way I wrote this fic so shoutout to Aurora for that. 
> 
> And as always, thanks to [my sweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kei_song) for reading this to make sure it doesn't look like I dug roadkill from my brain, and also putting up with me textually shouting about rediscovering the Aurora Visualizer at 4 am and being like oh my gods I didn't hallucinate this.

Death. 

Yifan has never experienced death before to his knowledge, but it must be something like the sharpness of dim lights clashing with the insistently bright white of the tiny pixels that makes up his screen, stabbing into his eyes, telling, paining. 

And it’s not him being dramatic, because he’s not a very dramatic guy, but there’s just something about the way his eyes ache under his blue light reduction glasses and the senselessness of everything and nothing existing in the same time as he exists surrounded by air but also solid materials yet with a need, a boredom, a want to keep looking at the screen that feels like death. 

His heart hurts when he thinks about it, and so does his waist when he finally gives into his base desires and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again, he looks over at the young man sitting next to him, fluffy brown hair flopping over the boundaries of their seats to lightly brush his arm, as if to try and playfully say a hi. He had been in the same position their whole fight, clearly a frequent flier coming prepared with a neck pillow and a portable charger, and the moment he settled into his aisle business class seat and cuddled himself in a blanket, he was far gone, past any point of contact. 

Yifan doesn’t make a point of looking at other people’s screens as a sort of visual eavesdropping, but it was only because he recognised some of the words on the man’s screen, a logo, an invitation, work so similar yet different to his own. The things on the tabs he clicks between imply that they’ll be attending the same conference and that they’ll probably be formally introduced later, so Yifan won’t try and push it now.

He’s asleep now, puppy lips that formed a v in their concentration relaxed into a softer w in sleep, and his head has migrated from the centre of the headrest to somewhere slightly closer to Yifan’s, just enough for his hair to reach over and say hi. He looks innocent in the ways that parachutes are innocent in the moments before they burst open, and Yifan takes a few more seconds to connect the few moles on the man’s face as another distraction from his task. 

Speaking of the man moving over, Yifan hadn’t realised that he’s been sitting closer to the man than he usually would, firm in the middle of his seat rather than pressed up against the window. He doesn’t feel like moving either, connected with the man by a matter of dozens of strands of chocolate pudding hair, but he carefully reaches his arm over, trying not to disturb the strands, and gently tugs the window shade open.

Sure, they should be closed, but instead of startling light that stings him enough to fully convince him that he lives, they are swallowed whole by dark black.

That’s all that they are, an insignificant dot of life in the sea of cosmos humans will never truly understand despite their tries, non-existent inside the soul of a black hole, yet so much more alive than the dusted purple mood-lighting providing people vision in order to not stumble into other seats if they must stagger down the aisle.

It’s calming, even if not truly comforting. So Yifan stares into the distance, willing his eyes to feel better as he searches for another sign of life, of being let in on the secret that he, they, are not alone. 

It doesn’t come, and the man stirs slightly, moving his head a fraction of a thought closer, introducing more hair strands to Yifan's shoulder.

But the cosmic black that he started at earlier is starting to look more like a navy or a rotten plum, dark colours that hint at a lighter point somewhere out there. The navy grows shorter and shorter, as the rotten plum changes to a violet, and then to a grape, and then to a fresh plum and lighter and lighter as the darkest orange arrives into molten gold, spanning across the sky in lines so precise machines cannot draw them. 

Before the light gets too bright, and especially before the bulb of the yellow spark could rise to throw out the calmer fruits for a bold summer cheer, Yifan will close the window shade, spare the man a rude awakening and shut them back into the nothing of death after tasting the full range of emboldened life. 

But until then, Yifan stares into the distance and watches as the heavens tell him the secret of how it lives. 

Everyone aboard the flight lingers in the semblance of death and the messiness of dreams besides him, and Yifan’s eyes relax and heal as they fly into the dawning of a new day.


End file.
